Straight Flush
by DeadManSeven
Summary: Quick. Dirty. Hermione. Draco. Canon? You decide.


_Icicle, icicle  
Where are you going?_

- Amos

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**'Straight Flush'**

Hermione felt the cold night air brush her hair from the top of the Astronomy Tower. It was dark, but the full moon gave off enough light to see clearly. She could see all the castle, the grounds, the deep black of the lake. All were still. She could see a light guttering in the window of Hagrid's hut. Would he be able to see her, if he stood at his window and looked her way? She fancied he could, and a whisper ran through her stomach.

This made her think about getting caught here, out of the dormitories in the dead of night. What if Professor McGonagall found her? Or Filch, led by Mrs Norris, slinking around the corner with her demon eyes? The whisper returned, redoubled, feeling like the rippling leaves on a tree in the wind.

Although the stillness of the night transformed the castle into something unrecognisable from the same castle in the day, this place, this time, was familiar to her. Hermione had been here before. Had waited here before - in the dark, in the moonlight. She was waiting for that one sound, a steady beating rhythm that started low (low noise, low in the stairwell, murky and lurking) and rose where it became clear and loud. It was the sound of something else, but it was also the sound of footfalls, and she could hear the footfalls now in the silence of the night. They stopped. She turned from the vista of the grounds.

Draco Malfoy stood at the top of the stairs. His arms fell by his sides but he stood confident. Hermione became very concious of how she was breathing. It was heavy. He could probably hear it. The moonlight was in his eyes. It was in his hair too, making it bright, making it a defining feature of his face - glowing hair, burning eyes, and the shadow of a smirk.

"Disrobe," he ordered. Commanded. His voice came from somewhere far away - or maybe it was close, too close. Maybe it was the wind that made her stomach ripple.

She did. Her robes melted away in a single fluid motion and fell to the cold slabs in an inglorious heap. She wore nothing under them (except white socks and flatheel Mary Janes, and didn't that just serve to highlight the rest of her nakedness?), and she felt the night air come again. Her skin froze. Her skin burned.

Draco's eyes didn't move (unless there was just a flick, just for half a second, that couldn't be seen in the night). His voice came again from that nowhere-place: "Turn."

Hermione could see the grounds (castle) (black lake) again, and she remembered the flame in Hagrid's hut and knew, _knew_ somehow in a perfect moment of realisation, that they were not alone. That there was a third party, silent, hidden (like the night, silent and hidden) underneath his Invisibility Cloak. Harry was here, because weren't the footsteps (heartbeat) different this time? He would hold still, maybe even almost shoulder to shoulder with Draco, and he would be silent but his eyes behind his glasses would be wide.

She thought about breakfast the next morning. Would he be normal, except for just a second when his guard came down and she could see he knew? Would he ask, and she would tell (confession) everything that happened on the Astronomy Tower on moonlit nights? What if he pulled her by the wrist and dragged her, exposed her in the centre of the Great Hall (oh God...), her deeds naked like her skin? She could no longer feel the cold.

"Bend over," came the directive, and she leaned against the parapet, soft skin against rough stone. She felt that roughness against her nipples, and gasped (groaned) (exhaled). No further commands came, but she knew what to do. Hermione had been here before. Her hand moved between her legs, and she knew again in that way of knowing without seeing that Harry would mimic her, mimic but not mime, their actions twins but not siblings, joined but not connected. But Draco would be still (like the stones, like the night) - he would stand with his arms by his sides and his hands balled in fists and a hardness that strained him. When she was finished (complete) he would find Pansy (his whore) and take her and kiss her and _fuck_ her with such savagery that she would cry out (and break the stillness of the night) but she would not even be there for him, he would (have the savagery on his face) be thinking of her, of herself, of Hermione, and the wind came (came!), came like a hurricane, and all she had to focus on was her heartbeat (like footsteps) and warmth that radiated from her and heated her skin.

Hermione let out her breath, and opened her eyes. She couldn't see anything in the darkness, but there was little at the moment worth seeing. She turned in her bed, closed her eyes again, and dreamed of nothing memorable.

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_Love is love is love is love  
But this just isn't that._

- Brooks and Mitchell

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_09-03-10_


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